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There is a vending machine on the platform of the station I always use, one that is almost never used.
There are only three drinks available.
Tea, some kind of carbonated soda, and—for some reason—corn soup.
The corn soup stays hot even in summer.
I always wait for the train with it somewhere in my field of vision.
I had never seen anyone buy anything from it, but one morning, for the first time, I noticed someone standing in front of it.
It was the first time that person had ever appeared to me.
Had they moved here recently, I wondered.
It was such a small station that the mere presence of a stranger on the platform at the same time every day felt out of place.
That person bought drinks using the vending machine’s roulette feature—a function that randomly selects one item when you press the button.
One day it was tea; another day, corn soup.
There were days when they bought several drinks in a row, and carbonated soda kept coming out.
In weather like this, I thought a cold soda must be tough to drink, and as usual, I watched the machine and the person.
That day too, I could tell it had been a carbonated drink again.
The person let out a small sigh and bent down to take it out.
“…Do you find it interesting?”
Before I realized it, I had spoken.
The person turned around and gave a small, awkward smile, as if unsure how to respond.
“…It’s not interesting. A cold soda in weather like this is a bit much.”
“Why don’t you just choose one normally?”
They gave a dry, self-deprecating laugh and opened their mouth, as if choosing their words carefully.
“Try not to laugh, okay?”
At that, I nodded.
“There are only three choices in this vending machine, right? I use it as my fortune for the day.”
“A fortune?”
“—Whether I’ll be able to talk to the person I like.”
My eyebrows twitched before I could stop myself.
What they had just said didn’t quite fit the picture I had formed.
“…And when you get a soda, what does that mean?”
“Completely hopeless. It means I won’t be able to talk to them today.”
“Then what about corn soup?”
“That’s perfect.”
“And tea?”
“Just a greeting, at best.”
“I see.”
I said that and boarded the train as it arrived.
The person stayed behind on the platform, waiting for a train going the opposite way.
The next morning, they got corn soup.
The person accepted it with clear delight, holding the can in both hands to warm themselves.
“…Good morning. Yesterday—you really couldn’t talk to them at all?”
“Ah, good morning. Yes. We’re in different departments, so being able to talk at all is actually pretty rare.”
“I see. Today it’s corn soup, then. I hope you get to talk to them.”
I said that and boarded the train.
Every morning was like this—we exchanged only a word or two.
Then, the person stopped coming.
At first, I assumed they might have fallen ill and didn’t think much of it.
But when it went on for a week, I found myself unable to settle.
One morning, on a sudden impulse, I took out my wallet.
I fed coins into the vending machine and spun the roulette.
There was a clatter as a drink dropped.
I bent down and took it out.
—A carbonated soda.
“…”
I let out a quiet breath.
In the cold air, I took a mouthful of the cold soda.
The distinctive sweetness of artificial sweetener lingered on my tongue.
“…Ah…”
In the end, I never saw that person again.
By Misato(Naoko) Shikata(Nomura)
Misato Shikata is a Japanese writer. Her work often explores subtle shifts in perception, memory, and unspoken moments between people. She writes short fiction that focuses on what is observed rather than explained. This is her first publication with Litro Magazine.
